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CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

CANTO III.

"Afin que cette application vous forçât de penser à autre chose; il n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps."

Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D'Alembert, Sept 7, 1776.

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

CANTO III.

I.

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,
And then we parted,-not as now we part,

But with a hope.—

Awaking with a start,

The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices: I depart,

Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by,
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine

eye.

VOL. I.

II.

Once more upon
the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,

Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath

prevail.

III.

In my youth's summer I did sing of One,

The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a steril track behind,

O'er which all heavily the journeying years

Plod the last sands of life,-where not a flower appears.

IV.

Since my young days of passion-joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness-so it fling

Forgetfulness around me--it shall seem

To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.

V.

He, who grown aged in this world of woe,

In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,

So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell

Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.

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